Tag Archives: sounding machine

“Edge” by Patty Paine

The Sounding MachineA woman touches her stomach,
each scar mouths its terrible storyinto her fingers. Midnight
and her daughter is in the pool
being held in the trembling

arms of a boy. Swooping bats sound
out the bodies. One. No, two. Details

that will carry across years: his wet breath
on her sun sore neck, the unwhole
moon, crisp kiss

of air on her face, her heart
pounding, pounding,

on the window, her mother’s
fists. In the cave of dark
water bodies fly apart, too soon

the mother says, too soon
for men and their bladed hands.

Patty Paine,
The Sounding Machine
Accents Publishing

Patty Paine on Grief & Other Animals

Accents has just released your second full-length collection. Can you describe the growth or changes you’ve experienced as a writer between Grief & Other Animals (Accents Publishing, 2015) and The Sounding Machine (2012)?

grief & other animals by patty paineAfter The Sounding Machine there was a great deal of upheaval in my life. I lost someone close to me from a drug overdose in 2013, and everything previous about my life was ransacked. I suppose the blessing of having one’s life excavated is the opportunity to examine what was unearthed. This close looking occurred in therapy and with the support of friends, and was a recursive process that reticulated across the connection between the who and the what of me—which is to say, I grew as a person and a writer. I think living with addiction is itself a form of addiction in that it isolates, it requires corrosive compartmentalization, and it thrives in denial. Once I learned how to live differently, I wrote differently. I now live and write more authentically, more securely, more confidently, and with more self-awareness.

I think about it this way: I’ve lived in the Arabian desert for eleven years, and when you live in the desert long enough you come to forget what you miss. And so I learned while visiting Beijing several years ago. I was walking through a botanical garden, when I was struck by a sound I didn’t recognize. It was a papery, soft rustling that slowly rose in my awareness and revealed itself as the sound of the breeze lifting leaves into song. The sound stilled me, filled me with a sudden expansive joy, and I was moved, both by how easily something sublime could be lost, and by how simply it could be restored. For me, the changes that occurred in my life were (are) much like this—amidst great loss, there was (is) a reawakening into simple and elemental joys and experiences. Continue reading

“Prey” by Patty Paine

The Sounding MachineI was the one sliced

from the herd, dragged

from the din of hooves.

It was my blood

glazing his muzzle,

my muscle and sinew

warming his gut.

When he lay down, I lay

with him, and together

we heard rabbits snapping

twigs underfoot.

We felt sun loosen our back

and fell into a long,

uncomplicated sleep

where we honed in

on a gazelle limping

behind its herd.

Our claws tore

into a quivering

haunch, our teeth

ripped flesh.

When I awoke,

the air, clean

and dry as a crystal,

tingled with light

Patty Paine,
The Sounding Machine
Accents Publishing

“Mother, Father, Child” by Patty Paine

The Sounding Machine by Patty Paine

Her mother threw herself
down the sundeck stairs,
over and over
until bones flew
apart inside her body.

Her father slipped
into her room, told
how he dreams of nothing
but the pigeon he killed
when he was a child.
Every night he stands over
himself weeping and ashamed.

Next morning she slides open
her father’s chest and sees
a gleaming
row of wrenches,
each mouth gaping
wider and wider.

She palms the smallest
and can almost slip
her pinky between its steel lips.
The largest grips her
wrist. She twists
until it catches skin, bites
bone, until the cold
concrete sways beneath her
bare feet, and pain opens
her like a wing.

Patty Paine,
The Sounding Machine
Accents Publishing

“On the Verge” by Patty Paine

.The Sounding Machine by Patty Paine                                 for Susan

Early fall, and along each branch
leaves are drawn against the coming rain.
My blind son feels heaviness
gathering in the sky, can taste the gray
swollen clouds. Later, he will send me
a bottle of wine he calls rain.
I taste currant, and earth,
and the something I can’t name is his
rain. But it’s not
so late yet, and my son is still
a smallness I can hold
to my breast.
It is fall, and I’m still grasping
his hand as we hurry home.
It will be years before he recalls this day,
how when the rain came I opened
my coat and lifted him to me.
As lightning arced overhead
he felt my trembling along his body.
It was then he could see
how much his life filled me with fear.

Patty Paine,
The Sounding Machine
Accents Publishing

Previous posts about The Sounding Machine and Patty Paine:

“Half-Korean” by Patty Paine

The Sounding Machine by Patty PaineI was six when Charlie Hunter stuck his finger
in my face: Is your mother from North
or South Korea? I guessed South.
It’s a good goddamn thing.
Ten when Andrea Lombardy beat me
at the bus stop for being a gook.
My mother forbid Korean so I craved her
forbidden tongue, and would slip
from bed to listen to her and her friends play Hwatoo.
They sat cross-legged on a bamboo mat,
fans of glossy cards in their hands,
their conversation punctuated
by the thwack of cards against mat.
English staggered from their throats,
but Korean burst open
like ripe fruit. Between hands,
chopsticks speared bits
of squid, and rice edged into mouths
from upraised plates. After, I’d steal
into my mother’s room to slide the Hwatoo cards
from a black lacquer and mother-of-pearl case.
I wanted to feel the slick plastic
between my fingers. I wanted to hold
fragile lotus blossoms, swollen plums
and larchwood in my palms.

Patty Paine,
The Sounding Machine
Accents Publishing

Previous posts about The Sounding Machine and Patty Paine: